


Take Two

by Violetwylde



Series: Ficlet Collection [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Kinda, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 14:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17163878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwylde/pseuds/Violetwylde
Summary: In an attempt to write slow Sunday morning sex, this happened. Please enjoy greedy John getting filled in more ways than he expected.





	Take Two

The air outside is cool as the soft, rose-gold light of dawn paints it’s way across the sky to caress the dew-drenched pavement of Baker Street. Everything is still and quiet. Everything but the slow creak of springs and low, rumbling groans filtering out of the window of 221B.

John has his hands wrapped around the wrought iron bars of the headboard—two anchor points to keep him grounded against Sherlock’s thrusts. John’s face is tucked into his biceps, his teeth biting into the swell of muscle, as Sherlock carves slow and deep into his body.

He’s draped over John’s back, panting against his nape. His voice is deep, velvet and sin against the shell of John’s ear. “Yes, John. Oh… Christ that’s good. Gonna come in you. So deep inside you. Would you like that? Would you like me to paint your insides with my come?”

John’s breath catches, his fingers flex. “Fuck yeah.”

He rocks his hips back, meeting the rolling tide of Sherlock’s thrusts, and curses into the bedclothes. He’s overstimulated—caught between the blissful fullness of Sherlock buried so deep inside him, and the agonizing friction of the sheets against his throbbing, wet cock. 

Sherlock pulls back, splaying his hands on John’s shoulders and giving himself the space to grind down. He pushes and pushes and pushes himself to the hilt, until John and can feel the scratch of pubic hair against his arse. Sherlock circles his hips, a filthy, churning motion that has John crying out, demanding, “Harder! C’mon. Fuck me like you mean it.”

“You don’t think I mean it?” Sherlock pants, dark and ravenous. John shudders to think that Sherlock has taken this as a challenge.

Sherlock pulls back even further, sliding his hands from John’s shoulders to his waist, his hips, his arse. He squeezes John’s cheeks, pulls them apart, then lets his thumbs slip down their twin slopes.

John sucks in a breath as he feels Sherlock’s thumbs slide along his raw rim, already stretched thin around his cock. _He wouldn’t. Would he?_

He would.

Sherlock slowly withdraws. Not all the way, just enough to give him space. John’s breathing is rapid and shallow, his thoughts vacillating between excitement and fear. They’ve never played at something like this before. He knows Sherlock would stop if he asked, but he doesn’t want to ask. He wants to see how far this will go.

Sherlock presses the blunt pads of his thumbs in, sliding them alongside his slick shaft, and tugs. John goes half delirious with the sensation. He groans so low and so loud, he can hardly believe it’s his own voice. 

“You like that?” Sherlock tilts his hips forward and back, just the barest hint of a thrust.

“Ohhhhhh yeahhhhhhh.” 

Sherlock pushes in a bit more, testing the stretch, and John arches back to meet him. “Oh, John…” Sherlock sounds breathless. And a bit wicked. “Now you’re going to fuck _me_ like you mean it.” 

It takes a bit of maneuvering, but soon John has once again secured his grip on the headboard—giving himself the leverage to impale himself over and over on the hot spear of Sherlock’s cock and those thumbs tucked just inside him.

This wasn’t how the morning had started. It had started slow and soft and sweet, with Sherlock nuzzling into the hair at John’s nape and John pressing back into the warm crucible of Sherlock’s body. It had been lazy as Sherlock slicked the leaking tip of his cock over John’s hole and plunged two fingers inside—John still been loose and wet from the night before. There had been no rush as Sherlock fingered John’s arsehole. He’d peppered John’s shoulder and neck with feather-light kisses as he rubbed maddening little circles against John’s prostate, until he was nearly sobbing with the pleasure of it. 

But nothing between them can remain slow and sweet. Nothing can remain delicate when the passion between them is stoked.

And so, John is now on his knees, head hanging between his shoulders, as he fucks back onto Sherlock’s fat prick and the thumbs pressed against either side of his greedy hole. It’s an exquisite fullness, like nothing he’s ever felt before. He’d almost be embarrassed by how much he loves it, if it didn’t make his eyes roll back in his head and his toes curl. He’d never really thought of himself as a size queen, but now he’s seriously reconsidering. He’s wondering how much more he could take. _Oh God_. Would Sherlock fist him? Would he even want that? He thinks about Sherlock snapping on a black nitrile glove and lubing his hand up until he’s glistening to the wrist…

John’s balls draw up tight and liquid pleasure burns through his veins. He shouts loud enough that his voice breaks, then he’s coming. Coming so hard a ribbon of semen hits his own chin. His heart is hammering and he’s still panting when Sherlock pulls his thumbs free of his grasping hole and takes him by the hips. He pulls John back onto his cock once, twice, three times, then lets loose a bone-deep groan as he goes rigid. John can feel him pulsing deep inside, making good on his promise.

It’s a breathless eternity later that Sherlock slips his softened cock from John’s hole. John knows he must be gaping, he can feel the warm trickle of come sliding down his inner thigh. Sherlock sits back on his heels and pries apart the globes of John’s ass, no doubt going in for a closer examination. He blows a cool stream of air against his hole, and John clenches reflexively.

“That was…” Sherlock is, for once, speechless.

John slumps down onto the bed. “Yeah it was.”

“Would you…” Sherlock lies down next to John, curls the tips of his fingers over the crest of John’s hip. “Would you like to do something like that again?”

John grins down into the mattress. “Oh god, yes.”

 


End file.
